#[maybe it'll come back to me by the time i write ch10]

[dcbicki]

S O M E W H E R E   I N   T H E   W I N T E R   W O O D S | Chapter Nine

Red Riding Hood AU: Lost on her way to her grandmother’s cabin in the winter woods after running away from home, beautiful young Sansa thinks she’s run into trouble when she crosses a white wolf in the forest. Instead of harming her, the animal guides her to his master, a handsome warrior named Jon who lives in solitude and clothes himself in black.

After much persuasion, he begrudgingly agrees to take her to her granny’s, so long as she never bother him again and promises to keep the local townspeople from hunting after his wolf. But snows fall heavily on the mountains as days go by and evil lurks behind frozen trees, making this no easy feat.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

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By the time she wakes, the fire has put itself out, all embers and dust. The room is filled with a heavy smell of smoke, the darkness of the night sky peering in through the window.

She doesn't know how they long they slept for, doesn't want to think of the advantage Ramsay could now have on them. What if he's close, nearby? What if he's waiting?

It's a dreadful thought, terrifying really - one she feels the chill of throughout her whole body, shivers up her arms as she pulls the cloak tighter. Jon is warmer now, thankfully more so than he had been before. His skin is rosier, still pale, but at least his complexion has returned back to its usual shade of snow white.

His backside is bare though, and she assumes he's tossed and turned in his sleep because he's on his side, one arm beneath his head, the other slung out as though to reach for her, cradle her.

Sansa sits then, clutching the makeshift blanket, curling her legs up beneath her. Her body is sore, tired, but not as plainly weak as it had been before. She would like to think she feels different, changed; but that would be a lie.

She is no different, not really, the only change being that she has now felt the true touch of a man, felt the promise of love and devotion. He could be lying, though. He could have cheated her, played another round of their game just once more, without her knowledge.

She wants to trust him, likes to think that she does. But he's a loner, and lonely, and perhaps she has given in too easily. Perhaps she has just ruined herself, soiled her name and body and soul because she wanted him.

She cannot let him have her again, this much she knows. She'd gotten what she wanted, what she felt she needed, and she guesses his cries had been those of relief, answered longing, too. Perhaps they played each other, after all.

Oh, well. If he leaves now, she will have to make peace with that fact.

She doesn't know why she doubts him, doubts his loyalty and word, but maybe it's the softer medicine to swallow, the one that won't scrape at her throat or burn her insides inside-out.

Maybe this way she won't be left hurting, alone.

"Are you going to keep staring at my backside all day?"

She snaps her attention back to Jon's face then, eyes trailing over the arch of his lower back, the hard muscles of his shoulders.

"Sorry." Her face flushes, much to her own discontent. Sansa curls her lips, one corner turning upward, "It's such a pretty bottom." She tilts her head, smiles.

She teases him, pokes at his nose with one finger, distracts herself before she can ponder anything more.

Jon can only frown, but there's the smallest chuckle that escapes past his lips anyway, "Thank you." It's almost a question.

"We have to leave soon."

"Where will we go?"

"Home."

She does not know where he means, which home he could be referring to. Her own, or his? The home she knows, has grown up in with her family? Or the one she would like to make for herself by his side, the one she would now like to call her own?

"Wouldn't it be safer to stay here?" It's stupid, she knows.

She lies back down at that, perched up on her elbow, cloak drawn up to cover her breasts, hair askew. Her eyes close, his hand pulling her closer, bringing her into his front, "I can't imagine anybody discovering us here."

"If your intended hasn't already... One day, somebody will." Jon informs her, "Your brother, your father. We aren't in the unknown, little wolf."

He isn't wrong, but she would still rather like to believe this daydream could become her reality. She would like to believe they could stay here, live here, die here of their own will, of old age.

"I want to go home."

She nods, flicks ice blue eyes open to stare him down, challenge him as though he has opposed her. He complies, and she isn't surprised in the slightest. Perhaps he does just want to guarantee her safety. Perhaps she never misjudged him. Perhaps the misjudgement had just been her own excuse, an answer to her woes.

"You'll make it home."

And I will go home, and I will be left just as I was before. Only I will be the girl unwed, bedded, wrecked. I will be the village harlot. I will be the wreckage, and you the flood.

"Ramsay will still want me."

He always has, probably always will. He won't care if she is willingly scathed, used. He will just make her his own anyhow. He will always want those who disobey him, oppose him; whether it be their head served on a platter or their freedom ripped from beneath them.

"And you will still refuse him."

"I can't imagine a time I won't loathe him." She tells him, lets him cup her chin, tilt her head, run his thumb along her bottom lip, "I can't imagine wanting him when I've had you."

"Sansa."

She makes to roll over him then, tossing one leg over his waist, hands on his abdomen, low. "Yes?" It's foolish. She shouldn't. She can't.

"Stop."

She should.

"Why?" She pinches the taunt skin of his belly, carefully avoiding his modest wounds, "Give me one reason."

"Because we don't have time."

"What if we never have time again?" She doesn't want to whine, to beg. But she liked it, and loved him, and would eagerly go for more even if what it means is still unclear to her.

He sits then, hands firmly on her waist, watching her slide down his lap until she rests back on her calves. "Then I guess our story is to be left without an ending."

There will always be an ending, be it wonderful or tragic, or a bittersweet combination of the two. There will be always be an ending, whether we choose it or not.

"You do riddle a lot." She points out, soft brows knitting, her face a pretty picture of ennui. "You're a riddler. A nice yet harsh riddler."

It isn't a jab, nor a jest.

"Would you like me to speak clearly?" He asks, runs one hand up her thigh as she bends her knee with a nod of her head, brings him closer, forces him to lean into her. "I would like to have you."

"Properly?"

Perhaps she doubted him for no reason at all.

"Any and every which way possible."

"Naked?" She smiles, grabs his hands, flips his palms over as she goes to stand, linking her fingers through his own, "In the flesh? All day?"

"If only the Gods were so generous." He kisses the crook of her elbow, rises onto his knees when she stands proudly, all tussled long hair and crimson cape. "If only I were so deserving."

"I believe this venture of ours has made you worthy of me." Sansa offers, cannot resist grabbing the sides of his face, pulling him up, forcing him to stand. He's scolding and cold at once - his face hot, his arms near freezing. "I believe I should myself lucky to have been saved by you."

"I haven't saved you, Sansa." He informs her with a dip of his brows, brooding and black, "I only want to protect you."

"Well, I don't need your protection." She swallows a breath, lets his hands fall, "I only ask for your word that you will take me home."

Perhaps she has misjudged her own feelings, played herself.

"I promised, didn't I?"

She nods, spins around until her back is turned. "Yes."

She leaves him to retrieve her clothes from the floor in the other room, slipping her dresses and garments over her head, pulling her socks and pants up. The bust of her dress is torn though, so she has to add one of her granny's simple slips beneath it.

"Are you mad?" He is dressing, too; this boy with the black hair and the white skin, this man with the voice of a fallen angel, the spirit of a demon ascended from below.

"No." She stuffs one leg in her boot, copies with the other, huffs, "I am... eager to leave this all behind."

Once I return home, I will ask Father for the right to marry you, love you. Once you return me home, you will ask Father for the right to marry me, love me. Once we return home, we will never leave.

"Eager to leave me already?"

"Eager to pretend I can."

Jon does not reply, but he helps her clothe, already having collected himself and his belongings.

They steal old food from the kitchen before they leave, and she shoves rolls of hard baked bread in her basket. It would be easier if she left it, went without. But if she has made it this far, then surely she can make it home with her favourite pannier.

They leave when the sun is rising, an amber glow on the pastel sky. The wind blusters, cuts, and she is grateful for her gloves, for her layers upon layers of dress.

She wants to think Jon has recovered, has regained his strength. But, in truth, she doubts he is well, that he is healed. He was wounded, and she had only just about patched over his fresh scars. How could he be healthy so soon?

"We should be home by morning."

A day's trek if they do not delay, stop. A day's trek and she will be returned, altered just in the slightest.

It will all have been for nothing, she thinks, pauses when she turns to sneak a look at Jon.

She wants him, wants him, wants to live with him. She would like to believe he wants the same things she does, wants to share her company for the rest of his life, too.

But he is a loner, and he is lonely, and happy that way. It would seem that way, at least.

'How could I leave you when I am in love with you?'

Perhaps he does share her dream, after all.

Perhaps she should stop doubting him, let him have her, protect her.

Perhaps she should believe him to be her best chance.

-

It's only when she's reaching into the basket for something to eat that she ponders Ghost's absence. The wolf has not been seen for some hours now, half a day at the very least. They've been gone for hours, too, now, walking miles to find their way back.

Jon says Ghost is fine, probably off hunting or chasing deer. He doesn't doubt his pet's whereabouts for one moment, doesn't think to question his absence.

But Sansa is not so easily settled. "What if he was caught?"

One wolf is stronger than one hound, but it is weaker than several. One wolf is stronger than one man, but it is weaker than one wielding a crossbow.

"He'll come back soon."

As he says this, there's a crunching, a snap, of some twigs behind them. It's quick, and the sound is so quiet that Sansa wonders how she ever even heard it at all.

She half-expects Ghost to come pandering right out of the woods, right on queue, in sync with his master's words. She half-expects a fox, a deer, a hound to come running out of the bushes.

None of this happens, though.

Nothing happens until several moments later, when she hears shouting and a loud bang.

Jon's hand wraps around her wrist, all icy leather and numb knuckles, before she can turn to face the scene, discover the source of those sounds. He pulls her forward, drags her to keep up with his own pace.

"Keep your mouth shut."

It's a command, an order, and only an utter fool would disobey.

It isn't Ghost that trails behind them, nor is it a fox or a deer.

There is one man - no, two men - and one dog at their heels. Dressed in black, with crimson red crosses adorning the sleeves of their tunics; the sign of the enemy.

Sansa can only catch a single fleeting look at them, from over her shoulder, through the curtain of her hair.

The redness of her cape had caught their attention, she assumes. It is so bright, so imposing that it has to have been their giveaway. She should have changed into something else, discarded it in favour of something darker, colder, discreet.

Only a fool would sport the colour of death as they were being hunted. Only a fool would think to bring food and wine, cloth and needles. Only a fool would think to prioritise hunger over true survival, thirst over life. Only a fool would make the decisions she has made.

She is nothing but a foolish young woman, a stupid little girl. She is anything but strong, anything but wise. She is stupid, stupid and small. There is nothing grown about her.

How could she have thought herself matured when, in truth, she has been nothing but spoilt, helped? How could she think herself independent when she has never fended for herself, always relief upon a man, and a stranger one at that, to save her, protect her? How dare she call herself a woman when she is nothing but a scared little girl with nothing to lose and everything to give?

How dare she expect Jon to save her when she has never proven that she would do the same for him?

She knows the men are still following, still at their heels, still waiting for their inevitable fall.

They have swords, undoubtedly, and she knows they won't harm her (too much) because Ramsay wants her. And Ramsay will only harm her when he has her, in spirit and in law.

Perhaps she could prove herself, after all.

"Jon."

The man doesn't seem to pay her much mind, save for the hand clutching so tightly onto her arm, the occasional look back to make sure she is still there. The snow crunches with every step he takes, his steps louder than hers, the heaviness of his body tugging her along with only mild effort.

"Jon, stop."

"What?" He bites, and his tone is not nice, sweet. It isn't the cold, either.

"Stop."

She pulls at his hold, forces him to loosen his grip. Her arm drops, and she immediately balls her fist at the loss, at the realisation of what she is doing.

He's facing her directly, his body leant in a way that tells her which direction he is set, prepared to run in. But she is stopped- completely, resolute.

"Go." She nods once, twice, barely blinks before repeating twice more, "Go."

She does not have to drag him into this. She does not have to put him in harm's way any longer. She can help him now, she can save him now.

"Jon!"

"You're insane."

She can hear shouting, laughing, and the heavy footprints of the hounds being left in the thick snow that fell overnight. The blueing flakes still falling down on them are her one solace, make this picture prettier than it is.

"Perhaps."

She wants to grab at him, hold onto him, fall into his arms and close her eyes until death comes to collect her.

She wants to touch him, kiss him, have him hold her for just one second so she can pretend this isn't happening.

"He won't hurt me."

Not right away. Not now. Not here. Not yet.

"You're stupid." He tells her, as though she doesn't already know this, as though she is so slow that she's still unaware of her own idiocy.

He grabs her then, one arm wrapping around her waist before she can even reply, one hand pressing firmly into the low of her back to push, shove her forward. She would refuse, but he's stronger, and he is determined. He's more determined to keep her alive than she is ready to die for his cause.

"Run."

Maybe he doesn't want saving, after all. Maybe he doesn't want protecting.

Jon does not let go of her, forever keeping one part of himself touching one part of herself, forever making sure she is still there, at his side, no more than a foot away from him.

"He will kill you."

"I made my peace with death long ago, Sansa. Long before you came along."

He slows, forces her to slow, catches her when she almost falls, tripping over a overgrown tree branch. Her boots have become worn, lightly shredding at the front when she has ran, tried to run, failed to keep up.

There is only so long they can hide here, crouched and huddled behind a thick oak tree, letting few fallen leaves float in the breeze until they land on the ground below them, shrivelling up in the cold air, coated in white dust.

There is only so long they can stay like this.

"Run south. Only south."

He's close to her, his breath so heavy and strong on her face, the curled hairs dangling over his forehead tickling her own skin. She wants to curl them, run her fingers through them. Terribly.

"To your cabin?" She will run, and hide, but only if he promises to join her.

"To your home."

The village is south, and his cabin is east. If only he would let her-

There's a growl, louder than that of a hound, not too far in the distance, and Sansa wills herself to believe that Ghost has returned to lend his master a hand, hopes that the weak howl had been that of a dying bastardly dog.

Jon pulls at the hood of her cloak then, drawing the strings tighter. He wraps a thick, burnt piece of leather she had plucked from her Granny's around her wrist, ties it to the basket of ale and wool.

"South."

She knows he surely cannot handle two of Ramsay's men. It isn't possible. He is weaker still, still battered and bruised and partially broken. But if he has Ghost, and if Ghost has already taken care of the hounds, then-

"Yes."

She wants to kiss him, wants to feel the touch of his lips one more time, one last time. But it would take too long, for she would fall and want to continue falling until she hit the surface of the the bottom of his heart.

If he has Ghost, he will be fine. And she can run. She can run, and hide, and she will freeze if she has to. She will go home, and she will tell someone, anyone, of what has happened. And they'll lead a party, and they'll help Jon, and she will-

"Go."

She hurries away then, smoothing a hand down his face once more, almost cradling his jaw like that of an innocent child. She wouldn't have let go if it weren't for the hand he bats her away with, with the hand that softly grabs her wrist and pushes, urges her to flee.

There is nothing innocent about him, though one may be fooled by his handsomely pretty features. One would be forgiven for thinking him unscathed, whole. One would be forgiven for thinking him a hero.

It hurts, to walk away, to run when she knows he is facing impending death.

Something inside of her aches at the thought, at the idea of Jon sacrificing his own freedom to guarantee her own.

He never asked to be her saviour, never sought after being her protector.

He could have denied her, refused her request and booted her from his cabin. But he is kinder than he lets on - or tries to pretend he can, at least - and he is softer than many other men she could have happened upon.

He never asked to be her hero, her guardian. He only wanted his peace, his freedom and isolation from the community.

And so, if he happens to survive, she will sacrifice her own desires, wants. She will grant him solitude, silent amnesty. She will demand that the villagers cease all hunting of he and his wolf. She will demand that the villagers leave him be. She will demand that they leave Ghost be.

If he survives, she will force herself to abandon him, if that is still what he truly wants, within his heart of hearts. She will forget him, will herself to pretend he is nothing more than a dream.

"Gods."

Her breath is heavy, panting, for she is not sure of how long she has been running, fleeing the hilltop.

There had been echoes of fighting men behind her at first, when she had left Jon alone at the tree. She had heard them sparring, shouting, coming to blows via swords and fists.

But she hadn't heard Ghost there, hadn't heard the direwolf growl, tearing a man from limb to limb.

That was some time ago though. The sky has darkened, the snowfall is heavier now, all thick flakes, refusing to melt on her tongue or hand. She is sure her feet are near purple, halfway frozen by now. But the adrenaline as well as her outright refusal to stop running, or rather hurrying, has stopped her from feeling the pain of the blistering cold.

Her throat is dry now, her knees boney and weakening. She looks over her shoulder every other moment or so, counts to fifty between peeks.

She is only a few miles or so from the village, surely. The basket on her arm is still swinging, the thick strap digging into her arm, most likely leaving its mark in her flesh.

She wants to stop, wants to drink, to rest. But there is no time for that, and she is almost-

"Ah, my love."

Her skin turns to ice then, shivers of sheer terror running up her arms and down her legs, encasing her entire body is a coat of fright.

"I've been looking for you."

If she could scream, she would. If only her voice would let her, if only her throat were clearer. If she could wail, she would do so until he slit her throat.

His eyes are darker than they had been when she last faced him, his hair sprinkled with snowflakes. His face is pale, but he bears more colour than she thinks Jon ever has. His cheekbones are prominent, his stance well rehearsed and his arms stretched behind his back, hands no doubt clasped, plotting.

"Aren't you going to greet me?" Ramsay smirks, takes one step closer, makes the distant village seem even farther away, impossible to reach.

If she ran, she could...

"Sansa."

"How did you find me?"

She would have thought him further north, buried deep in the woods looking for her. She would have thought him to be with his men, with his foot soldiers, his watchful aides. She would have thought him wiser than this, smarter.

Perhaps she misjudged his genius.

"It wasn't hard." He raises a brow, eyes her as though they are only catching up, trading news, "In fact, if it hadn't been for that friend of yours, we never would have found you."

She daren't speak his name, give him away. If Ramsay knows nothing of him, really, then she will not share. Jon, she thinks, breathing out.m

Ramsay lowers his head, tilts it down with a calculating smile she has never had the displeasure of seeing. He shrugs, keeping his shoulders raised, "His precious wolf was easy enough to hunt down."

Ghost.

Sansa's eyes close, foolishly, and she clutches onto the basket in her hands, knuckles turning an ivory white under her gloves. Her teeth grit, her lips drawn thin.

Gods, what have they done to him?

"Are you not happy to see me, Sansa?" He asks, and she can hear him move closer, hear his footprints carve into the thick blanket of snow, leaving his mark.

She doesn't reply, instead opening her eyes to star down at the ground, letting the redness of her cape shelter her face. She takes a deep breath, holds it in when his hand reaches for her face, bare and frozen.

Jon.

Ghost.

"Your family misses you terribly, my love." He tells her, strokes his index finger down her cheekbone to her jawline, cups her face in one hand.

She goes to turn her head, face the clearing to her right, but he tightens his grip, holds her steady. She could shove him, force him down. He has no weapon, that she can see. He has no protection, that she can see.

"I imagine they do."

His smile widens at her reply, finally, "As do I."

He runs the pad of his thumb over her mouth, smooth, pulls her lower lip out between his fingers. He tugs, watches her face flush, turn numb.

"Pretty little mouth." Ramsay says, focusing solely on her lips, "I do wonder what you taste like."

Jon.

"He isn't coming," He informs her then, taking in her expression, "Your little wolf friend. My man have taken care of him."

"How do you know?"

"Because they always take care of my business." His hand slips from her face, and he plucks a finger into the basket on her arm, "Have you brought me baked goods, my love?" It's sickening, that name, his face. "Come, we can enjoy them once we are home."

He goes to pull at her arm then, wrapping his palm around her elbow. It isn't soft, gentle, not is it as rough she expects.

Only hours ago, she agreed to this, resigned herself to submit to him. Only hours ago, she had lead herself to believe that perhaps this was her only hope.

But, now, in his presence, alone... She would rather slit her wrists and bleed out onto freshly fallen snow than go anywhere with him. She would rather die than become his toy, his trophy. She would rather die than let him win without even some semblance of defeat, too.

"Let go of me."

His eyes roll, and she can tell he grows impatient every time she pulls her arm back, stands her ground.

The howling of the trees fills the silence he leaves, the crunching of snow behind him, careful and calm, escaping him.

"You're too weak to fight me, Sansa." He argues, digs his fingers into her arm, but she only feels half the sensation due to her layers of dress. Her sleeves are long, thick.

He presses harder then, as though he knows she feels nothing. "Look at you, you're shivering cold. You must be sick." It would be caring were he not so naturally cruel. "You can't possible think you can refuse me, like this."

"Let go of my arm."

"Sansa," He sighs, leans into her but lets go of her, "You are going to be my wife. Let me take care of you."

"As you took care of Jeyne?"

"That girl has a mind of her own." He holds his hands up, unabashedly, "Nobody can help someone who creates such elaborate stories."

"She never created anything." Her brows knit, and she can feel her throat tightening, her eyes tiring, so she blinks, fights back against the fatigue, "You set your dogs loose after her."

"But it happened so long ago now, Sansa." He adds, "Let us go home, and we can clear up all of this mess."

Sansa shrugs his hand off when he reaches for her again, trying to touch her shoulder. His face changes at that, turns from annoyance to anger, and she can tell his impatience is reaching boiling level.

"I'm not going with you." She informs him, gazes off behind him, watches as white fur masquerades as snow. Her lip twitches, her mouth curling upward just the slightest, "I'm never going anywhere with you."

"Fine then." He grunts, takes two steps back, resumes his position with his hands behind his back. "If you want to stay here, and wait for my men to find you, well then have your way. I'm sure they will be more than satisfied to teach you some obedience. They're lonely men, Sansa. They haven't felt the touch of a woman in so long."

He smiles, wicked, "Though I'm sure you must have learnt a thing or two on your travels. Maybe you could show them what your dead little hunter friend taught you. You do have a lovely mouth; would be a shame to let it go to waste, don't you think?"

Refusing to give in to his comments, she retains her arms by her sides, keeps ice blue eyes focused on the frozen field behind him. The rosebushes are covered in snow ash, the pink flowers now as pastel as her flushed complexion. But the snow, the snow is as white as Ghost's fur, and the redness of his eyes cannot go unnoticed.

His eyes match her cloak, the biting colour of death contrasting against the purity of Ramsay's unknown backdrop.

If only he knew...

"If I'm going to die, let it happen while there is still some of me left."

You can have my body, but not my soul. You will never have me.

Ghost does not growl, does not make a sound, and his prints are lighter than Sansa has ever heard them. He is discreet, calm, a true ghost remaining out of sight, lingering.

But she sees him, and she knows that the wolf can sense her fear, her fright. He approaches on slow paws, head lowered.

If only Ramsay knew...

"Come, now. There is nothing here for you." The man reasons, waves a hand around with the slightest of laughs, disbelieving, "You can't run, you can't go back to that cabin. He isn't there, Sansa. He's gone. You have no out. You have no chance."

"I have one."

"Oh, and what is that?" He frowns, lets his truest colours show, his face the picture of evil itself, "Are you going to throw a snowball at me? Are you going to shoo me away with the flick of your little basket? You're stupid. You're just like your grandmother. She was weak, too. Couldn't fend me off." He gloats, "You're stupid, and you're alone, and you are helpless. You're nothing."

"Perhaps I am nothing," she stares at him, refuses to admit defeat, refuses to turn over her last card, "but then I still have my Ghost."

"Your ghost."

He chuckles, the kind of laugh that makes her skin crawl, makes every inch of her skin set itself aflame to burn all memory of his touch.

She watches the ever-present animal behind him, wonders how and when he first appeared, tracked her own. Maybe he had followed her, maybe he had abandoned Jon... Or maybe he had never been with Jon in the first place.

Maybe Ghost is all she has left now.

Maybe these Magic Woods have taken something from her, and gifted her something else in return.

Maybe the one she sought, the one she was always supposed to be find, had been the wolf himself.

My wolf. My beast of a man. My wolf of a man.

Perhaps Jon had been a wolf all along.

She nods her head once, twice, quickly, never taking her eyes from the beast's face, never letting her gaze drift. He watches her, the great direwolf with the pelt of Snow and the Stark scarlet wide eyes of her cape.

"Aye," she smiles, "My Ghost."

The wolf growls, makes a run for Ramsay's gut before she can give it another thought, before she can give him the signal to stop.

The sharpness of his teeth scrape, dig into the man's flesh, ripping into his side, tearing his skin to tatters. He grunts, groans, the beast's huskiness echoing alongside Ramsay's protests, screams of surrender.

The sound of torn leather has Sansa enraptured, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene. She is sure there are flecks of blood on her face, clothes and basket. She knows she should move, run, flee before anybody hears him and finds them.

But her body betrays her, and witnessing such a bloody death has never seemed to inviting. She would clap had she enough energy. She would smile had her face not partially frozen in the cold.

Her lips crack, and her nods reddens, and she can feel the bite of the cool air sting at her cheeks, as though someone is flicking their finger against her skin.

She burns, but she is made of solid ice. She is a mountain of cold embers, an iceberg of frozen ash.

He shouts, shrieks, screams like a little girl. He gives up fairly quickly, though, his body weakening.

He falls silent when Ghost has dug into his chest, ribs pulled apart, heart ripped from its cage.

It finishes before Sansa would like, Ghost lying down with his paws outstretched, mouth soaking red.

The crystal whiteness of his fur is ruined, drenched in blood and guts, an obvious warning sign of what he can do.

"Ghost."

The wolf rears its head to face her, watching as her blank expression turns to gratitude. He approaches then, standing up on four paws, moving to her side.

He sniffs at her side, muzzle against her hip, and she lets him rub remnants of her nightmare's stomach along the side of her cloak, staining the vibrant colour. He grunts into her side, and she pats his head, strokes the hard fur that hasn't been marred by ruby red blood.

"My wolf."

Jon.

"You don't have to worry anymore, Mother."

She came home some time ago, all battered and bruised, worn and weak. Her long limbs aching, and heart heavy.

Mother had shouted, screamed, pleaded to know where she had been.

Sansa had refused to speak, though. Ghost had left her side once they reached the edge of the village, and he had hurried off like the hunted prey of a hungry man.

Alone, she had made her way home, ignoring the stares and calls of villagers, bystanders that shouted out for her, face expressionless. The witch was nowhere to be seen, the drinking hole only filled with regular drunken men and whores.

The door to her home had been left open, and Sansa had pandered through without much of a thought. She dropped her basket, let the contents clash and collide inside.

Her Father had looked up from his seat, tears rising to his eyes once he caught sight of her, his eldest daughter returned. It's the most emotion she has seen from him in winters.

Arya had scolded her, questioned her to no answer; her little brothers too little to understand, too happy to have her home.

But Mother, her mother had slapped her, called her every name under the sun until Sansa had thrown herself down onto the floor, crumpled up into a heaping pile of tears and sobs, unable to hold it in any longer.

Back haunched, she leant her elbows on her knees, let the redness of her cape and hair surround her face. She hiccuped, shoved when someone tried to touch her, refuses to move from the sanctity of the doorway.

She doesn't know how long she spent there, in that position, hugging herself so tight she could almost feel her bones shift, crush. Eventually, her cries had subsided, her tears drying, staining her rose face with streaks of white.

"What do you mean?"

Rising from the floor, she'd moved to her room, lying down on the bed despite her ruined dress, despite her bloodied clothes.

Her mother came in shortly after, plucked dirtied boots from off of her feet, heated up the room with a small fire in the corner. Catelyn had attempted to remove the cloak off of her daughter, but had only been met with protests and groans in response.

Abandoning all hope to have Sansa bathe and change, she had thrown fur upon fur over the girl, sheltering her in from the cold.

It's nighttime now, Sansa notes, gazing out from the window, eyes peering out through her hair, over the scoop of her head. She snuggles tighter into the material, swallows a breath.

"Ramsay's gone." She blinks, stares straight ahead at the front door, squints to peer through the small cracks, "And he isn't going to come back."

"Sansa." The tone of her mother's voice shows concern, but her face is the picture of apology.

If she had known...

Jon.

"Grandmother," She starts, shoots her father the smallest of looks, closing her eyes after only a second, "She's gone, too."

It doesn't surprise her family, really. The woman was elderly, alone.

They don't ask, inquire; they just let her rest and wait for her to speak.

It's known that men should never travel along into the woods. Nobody dared.

Arya brings her a flask of water sometime later, and she sits at the bottom of the bed, hands in her lap.

"Did you kill him?"

She stares straight ahead, avoids Sansa's gaze, but the redhead can still spot the trace of a smile dancing along her little sister's lips.

"No." She offers, "But I let him die."

Turning to face her, Arya reaches a hand out, rests it on her sister's thigh, surprisingly comforting, "I'm glad you're home."

"Thank you."

"And I'm glad he isn't."

Sansa tries a smile, the corner of her mouth turning up just the slightest bit, and she knits her brows, slightly amused.

"What was it like?" Arya pries, leans closer, voice lowered, "In the Winter Woods? Father says it's dangerous, that it's a miracle you returned alive."

"It's... odd."

"Odd?" The younger girl frowns, chewing at her bottom lip, "Odd how?"

Before Sansa can reply, there's a loud pounding at the door, the old wood rattling, creaking at the sensation.

Catelyn has jumped up from her place at the dining table, stirring her pot of freshly cooked vegetables. She wipes her hands, takes a breath as she pulls the door open.

"Cat." The man greets, and Sansa recognises him as one of the young smiths from the town, Gendry. His brown hair is covered by a hat, his hands rubbing together, as though to keep warm, "Sorry to bother you this late, I... I know-"

"What is it?"

He doesn't pause, only raises his brows and peers into the family's home, "Is your daughter well enough to come outside, Cat?"

"Sansa?"

"Aye." He nods, shoots the redhead a small smile when he catches sight of her. "We're in need of her help, you see." He shrugs one shoulder, attempts a smile.

Catelyn sighs, pressing one hand on the doorframe, "She has only just picked herself up off of the floor and agreed to rest." She tells him, eyes warning, "She doesn't need to be helping you with whatever it is-"

"What is it?" Arya pipes up, hopping up from the end of the bed, folding her arms over her chest, "I can help."

Sansa watches, slowly rising to sit up in the bed, long fingers prying at the sides of her cloak. She pulls at the strings, draws it tighter.

"That's very kind of you, miss." He smiles down at Arya, "But I'm afraid only your sister can help us with this. You see, there's a man-"

"A man?"

"Aye." Gendry nods, scrunching his nose, "The young Mormont girl found him earlier tonight, just at the edge of the woods."

"Was it not Ramsay?"

Sansa's face drains of all colour then, and she pries the furs from off of her body, forcing them to the bottom of the bed.

"It can't be."

She slips on her boots, pulls her hood up with such an ease, all energy suddenly returned to her body.

Her hearts thumps beneath her chest, her blood flowing as fast as a current.

"Sansa."

She's already in the doorway then, and she can only give her mother one last look before she pushes past Gendry, Arya trailing at her feet.

Catelyn calls out to them from behind, watching as her daughter run after the young man who has sprinted ahead to lead the way.

They don't turn around, Sansa following the man with desperation, Arya at her heels in curiosity.

The younger girl overtakes them, shoving her way through the entrance to the pub when the door is pulled open by two tall men, barkeeps.

She stops at the foot of a table, emptied of punters, cleared of all cups and silverware.

Sansa can only catch her breath when she's finally inside, arms weak at her sides, chest heavy. Her heart won't still, the possibility of her dream being a reality perhaps a little too real, too cruel to be untrue.

If he's alive, then...

"Do you know him?"

Arya asks, thick brows fussing as she stares down at the man on the table. She wipes her finger over his forehead, pushing curled black locks from his face.

He is pale, cheeks rosy, but his chest is blue and yellow, battered and bloodied, and littered with old bruises. They've torn his shirt from his torso, wrapped bandages around his wounds. His brown eyes are closed, but she knows they would be darker if only he opened them. He lies unconscious, in some long sleep she wants so badly to wake him from. His breaths are laboured, raspy, and his face is longer and harder than she has ever seen it, broodier.

He is still unhealed, unhealthy. He is still weak, still unwell.

But, despite all of this - despite his cuts and scrapes and the dried blood that stains his face and neck, despite the puncture wound in his side, soaking the bandage with a thick, clotting layer of fresh blood - he is still here, and he is still alive.

He is breathing, and he survived.

"Jon."